JOHN TUSTIN - POEMS

John Tustin began writing poetry again a little over a decade ago after a hiatus just as long. fritzware.com/johntustinpoetry contains links to his published poetry online.

BOOKS IN A BOX ON A TABLE
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I have my books,
The ones you returned to me,
Sitting on my living room table,
Still in the box.
I removed a few, not many. 
The box hangs open, slackjawed.
I pass it several times a day,
Needing to turn sideways as I do so.
 
I considered burning the box
And all its contents
But I had already tried suicide
Many years ago and it didn’t take.
No need to try again, 
I have grown since then.

The box will remain in its proper place,
Open and in the way in the middle of the room
As long as I reside here.
It reminds me to remain romantically retired.
It reminds me that you were so inclined to dispose 
Of my final remnants where you are
As quickly as possible.
It reminds me of how little I can be worth.
When I lie awake at night, remembering our good days
And nights, imagining one day I will walk through your door
Once more,
It reminds me of the other person you also are
And how when you close your eyes at night
And you think about me,
It is only thoughts of the past.

Books in a box on a table,
Open like a vomiting mouth.
I climb inside and I close it,
Shutting out the light and the hope.
I am where I belong.
Right where you put me.

​A BRUTAL AND NATURAL THING

How I love you
And it is a love
That is a brutal and natural thing

Like lions mauling prey,
Tearing some poor animal limb from limb

Or a hurricane that pulls trees from their roots
And feeds drowning frogs to thankful egrets.

I take you to bed and I destroy you.
You tell me you love me
And I am drunkenly delirious.

How I love you
And how you love me
And it is a love of earthquakes,
Tsunamis, the sky splitting open
And lightning crackling in the heavy rain
That crinkles in the leaves and the darkness.

I look into your eyes and make you cry.
You touch the back of my neck and my body quivers.
We walk across the parking lot toward one another
And the electricity crackles
From light to light above us.

We meet in the doorway and universes collapse into themselves
And stars are being born
As we kiss,
Our bodies mingled.

I am the hunted and the hunter.
You are the mistress and the prey.
I am in your web.
You are caught and held down in the dark.
You spin me into a cocoon. I sink my teeth into your throat.

This is what it is now.
It’s nature.
I howl to the moon
Alone
With these hunger pangs.
You bare your sharp teeth
Looking out your window
At the angry pendulating ocean

And starving for my meat
Just like I starve
For yours.

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THE HAND
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The hand opens and the hand closes.
Sometimes it closes on something.
Sometimes on nothing.
Sometimes there is so much in the hand that it loses what comes to it
On the closing.
There is only so much room inside.

There have been times I have closed my hand and held little.
Other times, just enough.
Most often I have held nothing.
But never have I closed my hand
And held too much.

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SPARK
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Tonight
you lend me that spark
of blue flame
that sets fire to this page
and all the pages that preceded it.
I genuflect at the wriggling flames,
inhale the sweet smolder
and love you
like I love these words,
like I love myself among them,
these ruins, embers,
mirages of my past.
Ignite the remaining dark hours
until the days
and it’s predictable jealousies
extinguish our reverie,
our ritual,
our bonfire of history.
The smoke spirals
it’s gutsy ascension
into an idea
of heaven
and I am 
humbled.

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​TO MY ANGEL

It’s another summer without you.
My skin is tougher, the lines deeper,
I sleep less and less.
It seems like I dust the shelves at night
And when I wake up in the morning
They are coated in dust again.
The dishes in the sink are always there.
The garbage is always full of rotting refuse and empty bottles.
Every night seems the same.

I have the poetry
And I have the music
And I have the occasional nights when I drink and write
And think about you
But I don’t have you.

It’s another summer without you.
If feels worse than the winter without you
Because you know I hate the heat.
I make these lowing noises like a beaten cow
As I lie in bed at night, tossing and turning,
Waiting for the morning or the end.

To my angel –
Who gave me a beginning.
It’s another summer without you.
I mourn the end of us as if it is a death
And in some ways it surely is. 
There will be more summers and more winters without you
Until that, too, ends.
I will grow older and fatter, more ill in health
Until that finally ends.
Everything ends.


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